


twisted love

by novoaa1



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Hotel
Genre: Alcohol, Anger, Angst, Betrayal, Blood Drinking, Breathplay, Choking, Cigarettes, Coercion, Dom/sub Undertones, Drinking, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, Illicit Substances, Implied/Referenced Marijuana Use, Light Bondage, Light Masochism, Mental Coercion, Mild Blood, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Overstimulation, Pet Names, Possessive Behavior, Power Dynamics, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, Rough Sex, Smut, Top Countess Elizabeth Johnson, Unhealthy Relationships, Vaginal Fingering, a lot of high-temper emotions, but then elizabeth is like 'let's fuck' and you're like 'kay', creepy horndog boys, leaked nudes (only to one person), liz taylor is a good bro, possessive countess elizabeth johnson, toxic countess elizabeth johnson, you know how it be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:08:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28882938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novoaa1/pseuds/novoaa1
Summary: Liz furrows her brow. She seems torn. “She loves you, you know,” she says after a beat. “In her own twisted way, granted. But… she does.”“I love her, too,” you say without a moment’s hesitation, and damn it all, but it’s true—even still. “But I can’t…” You don’t finish the thought. Instead, you get to your feet, tapping the bar and flashing Liz a shaky grin. “Thanks for the drink, Liz… but especially the company.”Or: Elizabeth makes a rash decision (not that that’s out-of-character for her in any sense of the phrase). Still, this time is different.This time, she's gone too far.
Relationships: Countess Elizabeth Johnson/Reader, Liz Taylor (American Horror Story) & Reader
Comments: 1
Kudos: 42





	twisted love

**Author's Note:**

> in honor of lady gaga becoming the 46th POTUS
> 
> also liz taylor deserves more love
> 
> oh and PLEASE READ THE WARNINGS OK? ALL OF THEM before proceeding

You stand on the sidewalk in front of your destination, arms crossed and visibly fuming as your Uber peels away from the curb behind you with a screech.

You pause to rate your ride—five stars—and give him a 20% tip. You may be pissed beyond words can say right now (and sort of broke, too), but you’re not an asshole. 

You shove your phone in the back pocket of your jean shorts, check your linen tote bag to ensure you’ve got everything you came with—keys, wallet, pack of smokes and a lighter. 

Then, you make a beeline straight for the double doors of the Hotel Cortez. 

— —

Iris is at the front desk (as she always is) when you storm through the lobby. 

“Hey there, Y/N!” she greets jovially. Then, “... Y/N?” she asks, much more hesitant this time. 

You spare her a brief nod. “Hi, Iris.”

She mutters something to herself, then, far too quietly for you to hear. It barely registers. 

You don’t care. You’ve got exactly two things on your mind—a shot of liquid courage at the bar, then straight upstairs to give Elizabeth a piece of your mind. 

Liz Taylor’s there when you walk up—mixing drinks behind the counter, dazzling as ever in a vintage flapper dress straight out of the 1920s. 

“Back so soon?” she asks knowingly, cocking an immaculately-plucked brow down at you as you collapse onto a barstool.

You huff out a sigh, cheeks warm with frustration. “She killed my friend.”

Liz’s placid expression doesn’t change. “Yes, she tends to do that when she’s feeling threatened.”

“‘Threatened’?” you repeat incredulously, anger ballooning in your chest. “You—” You cut yourself off mid-thought before you can really get into it. Liz doesn’t deserve to be on the receiving end of your fury. “Can I get a couple shots of Grey Goose, please? And, uh, just put it on my tab.”

Liz makes a face at that but dutifully sets an empty shot glass before you and turns to go off in search of the bottle. 

“You and your vodka…” she trails off, snatching it off the shelf and turning back to you. You watch numbly as she deftly unscrews the cap with flawless French-manicured nails, then pours you a healthy shot. “I’ll never understand how you can love something that tastes so putrid.”

You shoot her a half-hearted grin, run your finger along the rim of the miniature glass. “It’s not about the taste, darlin’,” you tell her, effecting an exaggerated Southern inflection that never fails to make her raise a single brow and huff out an amused scoff. This time is no exception. “It’s about the way it burns going down.”

With that, you throw your head back and down the shot in one go. 

You want to slam the empty glass back on the bartop, but you don’t. Instead, you place it gently between the pair of you, silently asking for another. 

“It was a boy, wasn’t it?” Liz asks with a knowing glint in her eye as she pours you another. 

You nod your thanks even as a frown tugs at your lips. “What?”

“The friend of yours,” Liz ventures lazily. “The one the Countess killed.” At the blunt reminder, unshed tears burn in your eyes. You neck the second shot. It burns a little less this time going down. “It was a boy, wasn’t it?”

You shrug, already feeling a slight fog infusing its way into your overwhelmed brain. “Does it matter?”

Liz doesn’t chuckle (which you’re grateful for), though the glimmer in her eye tells you it’s not for lack of wanting. “‘Course it matters,” she counters in a tone that’s almost chiding. “She probably thought he was sweet on you.”

Warmth burns in your cheeks, then, and you can’t tell if it’s from the alcohol or your own embarrassment. 

Liz notices—because of _course_ she does. Liz _always_ notices. 

“Oh,” she gasps. Her knowing gaze seems to burn right through you. “He was, wasn’t he?” When you stubbornly keep your silence, she adds, “And you knew it.”

“That shouldn’t have mattered,” you protest, clenching your fists beneath the counter as a wave of fresh anger gnaws at your insides. “I told him I wasn’t interested. Asked him if we could still be friends. He said that that was fine.”

This time, Liz does chuckle—genuine and throaty, shaking her head and _tsk_ -ing like you’re an ignorant child desperately in need of proper guidance. “But he’s still interested, isn’t he?”

You tamp down on your mounting frustration to think about it for a moment. “I… I don’t know?” you say eventually. It’s the truth, even if Liz’s expression is the very picture of skepticism as she studies you. “We just hang out. Nothing weird, just… friend stuff. Or—” You pause, biting your lip as fresh grief blooms in your chest like poison flowers in the spring. “Or... We used to, I guess.”

Liz falls silent for a beat… then two. “You really cared about him,” she says gently. You grit your teeth, willing away tears. You won’t cry. You _won’t_. 

“Yeah,” you admit. Your voice is choked with tears. “I loved him. Not in a more-than-friends way, or anything. Just… he’s been there for me, you know? Made me laugh.” You sniffle, delicately wiping away the tears from your eyes before they can fall. “And Elizabeth killed him.”

Liz sighs, tips the Grey Goose bottle, and starts pouring you another shot. At your questioning look, she says, “You need this a lot more than you think you do, sweetheart.”

After a moment’s deliberation, you nod. “Okay… One more. And then… Then, I have to talk to her.”

Liz nods, screwing the lid back on the bottle and storing it back in its place. “What are you gonna tell her?”

You knock back your third shot of the night. It barely tastes like anything going down. “I don’t know,” you admit, chest on fire with a burning warmth that only ever comes with the alcohol. “Maybe… that we need to take a break, or something.”

Liz raises a brow, something like genuine worry flitting through her gaze. “You aren’t worried about how she’ll take it?”

You almost roll your eyes, but ultimately decide against it. “Of course I am,” you say. “That’s why I’m not going to suggest we stop seeing each other entirely.”

Liz furrows her brow. She seems torn. “She loves you, you know,” she says after a beat. “In her own twisted way, granted. But… she does.”

“I love her, too,” you say without a moment’s hesitation, and damn it all, but it’s true—even still. “But I can’t…” You don’t finish the thought. Instead, you get to your feet, tapping the bar and flashing Liz a shaky grin. “Thanks for the drink, Liz… but especially the company.”

Your head is lighter than it was before, suffused with a pleasant buzz… and yet, the enmity in your heart—bitter and hot—remains. 

Liz waves away your thanks with an easy grin, though there’s a slight crease between her brows that betrays her lingering worry. “No problem, Y/N.” She leans over the bar, fixes you with a meaningful look that stops you in your tracks. “Be careful, okay?”

You break out into a reassuring grin that you don’t really feel. “Always.” With that, you turn to leave. 

Were you a little more levelheaded, you might’ve noticed the wary looks Iris and Liz exchange the moment your back is turned… But as it is, you aren’t at all fazed by the sheer stupidity of what you’re planning to do. 

No one berates the Countess and lives to tell the tale. 

Her temper is a wild, irrational, virulent thing. 

Despite the twisted sort of affection she feels for you, you’ve never been exempt from it. 

If you were just a little less pissed off and embittered and _devastated_ about losing one of your closest friends in this world, you’d find that unnerving… if not utterly debilitating. 

As it is, you don’t. 

You’re blinded by your own grief, how it manages to seep its way into everything you do… how it’s already changed you so goddamned much, and you aren’t at all sure it’s for the better. 

So yes, you’re about to go up to the penthouse and give Elizabeth a piece of your mind. You don’t give a damn that she’s the Countess, or that she could kill you with a single stroke of her pointy-ass glove. 

You’re pissed, and devastated, and she had no _fucking_ right to hurt the guy you called friend. 

You’re gonna make damn sure she knows it. 

— —

She answers the door in a tiny pink-satin robe that does absolutely nothing to hide her voluptuous figure or the mouth-watering curves of her breasts or the turgid peaks of her nipples straining through the flimsy fabric.

You don’t know whether to be shocked, turned-on, or even more infuriated than before. 

Maybe it’s some perplexing combination of all three. 

“Darling,” she greets in that low, sensuous tone of hers, all the while giving you those unmistakable _‘Fuck me’_ eyes that never fail to make you weak in the knees. _Fuck_. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

You blink—once, twice. Open your mouth, then shut it. (Though you’re careful to keep your eyes glued to her face instead of straying anywhere else, thank you very much.)

Elizabeth just raises a single perfectly-shaped brow, hints of telltale amusement playing out across her regal features.

_God fucking dammit_. “I… I need to speak with you,” you manage eventually, heat rising to your cheeks even as you stubbornly hold her gaze. 

Elizabeth smirks like she can sense your inner turmoil, but steps back to grant you entry all the same. “Please.”

You stride in with a hell of a lot more confidence than you feel, and find that with Elizabeth at your back (and thus out of sight), your anger returns with a vengeance.

With some reluctance, you turn back around to watch her shut the door before saying, “You killed my friend.”

Elizabeth appraises you for a brief moment, then shrugs. “You’ll have to be more specific, babydoll,” she purrs. With that, she turns to retrieve a pack of smokes off the nearby table, plucking one out and placing it deftly between her glossy lips. “I kill a lot of people.”

You try for your best glare as she procures a lighter from the pocket of her robe and lights up. “Don’t do that.”

She inhales deeply, holds it for a beat or two, then exhales out a long stream of smoke, all the while studying you as if you’re a puzzle she’s intent on solving. “Do what?” she asks. 

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes, but doesn’t do you the disservice of denying it. “You have poor taste in friends,” she says instead. 

“He is— _was_ —a good guy,” you protest hotly, voice trembling with emotion. 

Elizabeth takes another hit—this one markedly shorter than the last—and blows it out with a vaguely displeased frown. “He was a horny little boy who desperately wanted in your pants.” 

“We talked about that!” you counter, raking your hands through your own hair in an effort to soothe yourself. “He told me he wanted to be more than friends, and I said I didn’t feel the same. Then we kept being friends, and it was fine. We were _fine_.”

A sardonic smirk pulls at Elizabeth’s lips. “He still wanted you.”

“So?” you exclaim, feeling borderline hysterical. “Boys are horndogs. You know that as well as I do!”

Elizabeth rolls her eyes again, struts over to the vanity, puts her cigarette out in a gleaming, crystalline ashtray. “Did you know that he jacked himself off almost nightly to naked pictures of you saved on his phone?”

It takes everything within you not to visibly recoil. “I—What? That’s not—You’re lying,” you sputter. “He wouldn’t. I… I never even sent him pictures like that—”

“I interrogated him about it before killing him,” Elizabeth says simply, turning back to you with a disapproving, almost disgusted expression that lends credence to the theory that what she’s saying is true. 

“He said the two of you were smoking in his apartment. You had a little more than you could handle. You fell asleep while scrolling through some… trivial social media application. He saw an opportunity, and did some snooping.” She shrugs, then, though the look in her eyes is cold… angry. 

“He counted himself quite lucky that you’d sorted them into a photo album that wasn’t password protected. He AirDropped them to himself, put the phone back in your hands, then went to another room to… pleasure himself to your photos.” The last part, she says with a snarl, but it hardly registers. 

Every word hits you like consecutive sucker punches to the gut, one right after another. 

She’s not lying. If you weren’t convinced before, you are now. 

The details… smoking together in his apartment, drifting asleep while you scrolled through Twitter, the photo album with all your nudes that you’d never been paranoid enough to password-protect. All of that is true. All of that _happened_.

You feel… sick. Fucking _sick_.

“I can’t believe he would do that,” you whisper, more to yourself than anyone else. The room seems to sway in your vision. 

All at once, Elizabeth is at your side, rubbing circles between your shoulder blades with a gentle hand. “I’m sorry, darling,” she soothes, though she doesn’t sound at all as though she means it. “I just wanted to protect you.”

You sniffle, employing a considerable amount of willpower to keep the tears at bay. “I’m still mad at you,” you mumble quietly. There’s no heat in it—not really, but it doesn’t change the fact that you mean it. 

“That’s okay.” She leans in, presses a feather-light kiss against your cheek. Despite yourself, you lean into it—willfully taking comfort in her familiar touch even as every modicum of your being screams that you shouldn’t… that it’s _wrong_. “You can be angry all you like… just long as you’re safe.”

You bite your lower lip hard as a tear streams down your cheek, turning to face her with wide, red-rimmed eyes. “I’m still mad at you,” you repeat, your voice scarcely above a whisper. “But I still want you.”

The truth of it seems to break your heart in two, and you feel like collapsing where you stand. The three shots you slammed at the bar just minutes ago aren’t much helping. 

Elizabeth just nods solemnly, like you’re making perfect sense. (You’re not.) “Stop fighting it,” she tells you, injecting that note of quiet authority into her silken tone—the one that never fails to make you bend to her will. “You’ve been so strong, my little dove. So, so strong.”

Your eyes flit down to her lips and back up again—a blatant tell. 

Mercifully, Elizabeth doesn’t comment on it. “You don’t have to fight anymore,” she murmurs, nuzzling the tip of your nose affectionately with her own. “I’ll be strong for both of us.”

You take a deep, shuddering breath, and don’t flinch away when her gloss-covered lips ghost over yours. “You mean that?”

“Cross my heart,” she whispers back without a hint of insincerity. The words are hot against your lips. 

You nod, leaning in to press your forehead against hers. The contact soothes you more than you’d care to admit. “Okay.”

— —

Half an hour later, there are two hand-shaped bruises blooming above either of your hips. Bite marks litter your neck, and there’s a bleeding cut beneath your left collarbone that stings in the best possible way, the skin around it smeared with blood where Elizabeth indulged herself in a taste. 

She’s got a hand around your neck, pinning you down to the mattress as three of her fingers thrust in and out of you at a break-neck pace that makes your head spin. 

You want to touch her more than anything; you ache to feel her smooth, warm skin beneath your palms—and yet, every time you try, the bruising sting and audible clink of cuffs holding your wrists fast to the headboard reminds you that you can’t. 

“Please,” you whimper as she hammers into you without finesse, crooking her fingers _just so_ to massage that spot along your inner walls—the one even you could never seem to reach on your own. 

At this point, you’re not even quite sure what you’re asking for. Your head is a whirling, overstimulated mess, rendering you utterly torn between pleading her to stop and begging for more.

She’s already made you cum twice in rapid succession over the last twenty minutes. Exhaustion weighs heavy on your thoughts like rain-clouds, mingling with the haze of intoxication and lingering remnants of mind-blowing post-orgasmic bliss until you can’t tell where one starts and the other begins. 

Your cunt is drenched in your own slick, red and raw from all that it’s been made to endure… and even still, Elizabeth doesn’t let up. If anything, she seems to take it as a challenge—a sign to speed up, to fuck you that much harder until you fall apart again. 

Every twist and thrust of her clever fingers draws a lewd, squelching noise from your cunt—filling the room with irrefutable evidence of your own sinful depravity—and God help you, but you don’t even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed about it. 

“C’mon, baby,” she croons, pressing her forehead to yours and holding your teary-eyed gaze captive with a lust-filled one of her own. “You can take another one, can’t you? You can come for me one more time, make me so _fucking_ proud?”

It takes a significant amount of effort to register what she’s saying, much less form a coherent response—but somehow, you manage a jerky nod. “Y-Y-Yes, I— _Fuck_ —I-I can try—”

“Oh, no, we’re well past trying,” Elizabeth growls, tightens her hand around your neck until your every breath comes as nothing more than a faint, choked wheeze. “You’re _going_ to come for me, again. And you’re going to _keep_ coming for me until _I_ decide you’ve had enough.”

With that, she adjusts her angle until she’s slamming your spot on every stroke, making your eyes roll back in your head as pleasure assaults you on all fronts. God, you’re fucking delirious—writhing on the sheets, wailing to the heavens and yanking hysterically at your cuffed wrists even if it’ll likely bruise something awful by morning. 

And Elizabeth… well, she’s as good as her word. She fucks you in a manner that borders on violent—rotating her fingers at random increments to make you keen, grinding her palm _hard_ against your clit every time she bottoms out, abusing that special spot along your front walls like she doesn’t care if it hurts you. 

A powerful climax builds in your gut even as your sorely overstimulated cunt aches and spasms, desperate for a reprieve. Overwhelmed tears burn in your eyes. Your thighs tremble and shake, but you don’t close them. 

You don’t care if it hurts. 

Elizabeth wants you to come again, and you’re damn well going to do it. For her. 

— —

**Author's Note:**

> bet okay so who wants to go to church? i'll drive
> 
> ALSO A KID CALLED ME THE F-SLUR THE OTHER DAY LIKE 5 MINUTES AFTER MEETING ME LIKE SIR P L E A S E . ALSO HOW DO THEY ALWAYS TAKE ONE LOOK AT YOU AND JUST KNOW EXACTLY WHICH SLUR TO USE-
> 
> actually you know what, it was probably the pink hair, hooded flannel jacket, and pentacle necklace. nvm
> 
> oh and if you wanna check out the tumblr blog i made exclusively for writing things (some reader-insert works & any questions you have about stuff i've written or am currently writing), you can find it @novoaa1writes ([link](https://novoaa1writes.tumblr.com/))


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